Classic Poem

A Poetical and Congratulatory

on

His Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with the Celebrated Doctor Johnson

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,
Thou mighty Shark for anecdote and fame;
Thou Jackall, leading Lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson 'midst his native North;
To frighten grave Professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore:
All hail! — At length, ambitious Thane, thy rage
To give one spark to Fame's bespangled page,
Is amply gratified; a thousand eyes
Survey thy books with rapture and surprise.
Loud, of thy Tour, a thousand tongues have spoken,
And wondered that thy bones were never broken.

Triumphant, thou through Time's vast gulf shalt sail,
The Pilot of our Literary Whale;
Close to the Classic Rambler shalt thou cling,
Close as a supple Courtier to a King:
Fate shall not shake thee off, with all its power;
Stuck, like a Bat to some old ivied Tower.
Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had bless'd thy eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies:
Yes; his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),
A Tom-Tit twittering on an Eagle's back.

Thou, curious Scrapmonger, shalt live in song
When Death has still'd the rattle of thy tongue;
E'en future babes to lisp thy name shall learn,
And Bozzy join with Wood and Tommy Hearn,
Who drove the Spiders from much prose and rhyme,
And snatch'd old stories from the jaws of Time.
Sweet is thy page, I ween, that doth recite
How thou and Johnson, arm in arm, one night,
March'd through fair Edinburgh's Pactolian show'rs,
Which Cloacina bountifully pours;
Those gracious show'rs that fraught with fragrance flow,
And gild , like Gingerbread, the World below.
How sweetly grumbled too was Sam's remark,
" I smell you, Master Bozzy, in the dark!"
Alas! Historians are confounded dull,
A dim Boeotia reigns in every scull:
Mere Beasts of Burden, broken-winded, slow,
Heavy as Cart-horses, along they go;
While thou, a Will-o-the'-wisp, art here, art there,
Wild darting coruscations every where.

What tasteless mouth can gape, what eye can close,
What head can nod, o'er thy enlivening Prose?
To others' Works, the Works of thy inditing
Are downright Diamonds to the Eyes of Whiting.
Think not I flatter thee, my flippant friend;
For well I know that Flattery would offend:
Yet honest Praise, I'm sure, thou wouldst not shun,
Born with a stomach to digest a tun.
Who can refuse a smile, that reads thy page
Where surly Sam, inflamed with Tory rage,
Nassau bescoundrels ; and, with anger big,
Swears Whigs are Rogues, and every Rogue a Whig?
Who will not too thy pen's minutiae bless,
That gives Posterity the Rambler's Dress?
Methinks I view his full plain suit of brown,
The large grey bushy wig that graced his crown,
Black worsted stockings, little silver buckles,
And shirt that had no ruffles for his knuckles.
I mark the brown great-coat of cloth he wore,
That two huge Patagonian pockets bore,
Which Patagonians (wondrous to unfold!)
Would fairly both his Dictionaries hold.
I see the Rambler on a large bay Mare,
Just like a Centaur, every danger dare;
On a full gallop dash the yielding wind,
The Colt and Bozzy scampering close behind.

Of Lady Lochbuy with what glee we read,
Who offered Sam, for breakfast, cold Sheep's Head;
Who, press'd and worried by this Dame so civil,
Wish'd the sheep's head and woman's at the Devil!

I see you sailing both in Buchan's Pot:
Now storming an old woman and her cot;
Who, terrified at each tremendous Shape,
Deemed you two Demons ready for a rape.
I see all marvelling at Macleod's together,
At Sam's remarks on whey and tanning leather.
At Corrichatachin's, the Lord knows how,
I see thee, Bozzy, drunk as David's Sow,
And begging, with raised eyes and lengthen'd chin,
Heaven not to damn thee for the deadly sin.
I see too the stern Moralist regale,
And pen a Latin Ode to Mistress Thrale.
I see, without a night-cap on his head,
Rare sight! bald Sam in the Pretender's bed.
I hear (what's wonderful), unsought by studying,
His classic Dissertation upon Pudding:
Of Provost Jopp I mark the marvelling face,
Who gave the Rambler's freedom with a grace.
I see too, travelling from the Isle of Egg,
The humble servant of a horse's leg;
And Snip the Taylor, from the Isle of Muck,
Who stitch'd in Sky with tolerable luck.
I see the Horn that Drunkards must adore;
The Horn, the mighty Horn, of Rorie More;
And bloody Shields that guarded Hearts in quarrels,
Now guard from Rats the milk and butter Barrels.
Methinks the Caledonian Dame I see
Familiar sitting on the Rambler's knee;
Charming, with kisses sweet, the chuckling Sage;
Melting with sweetest smiles the frost of age;
Like Sol, who darts at times a cheerful ray
O'er the wan visage of a Winter's Day.
" Do it again, my dear," I hear Sam cry:
" See who first tires, my Charmer, you or I."
I see thee stuffing, with a hand uncouth,
An old dried Whiting in thy Johnson's mouth;
And lo! I see, with all his might and main,
Thy Johnson spit the Whiting out again.
Rare Anecdotes! 'tis Anecdotes like these
That bring thee glory, and the Million please:
On these shall future times delighted stare,
Thou charming Haberdasher of Small Ware.
Stewart and Robertson from thee shall learn,
The simple charms of History to discern:
To thee, fair History's palm shall Livy yield,
And Tacitus to Bozzy leave the field:
Joe Miller's self, whose page such Fun provokes,
Shall quit his shroud, to grin at Bozzy's Jokes.
How are we all with rapture touched, to see
Where, when, and at what hour, you swallowed Tea;
How once, to grace this Asiatic treat,
Came Haddocks, which the Rambler could not eat!

Pleased, on thy Book thy Sovereign's eye-balls roll,
Who loves a Gossip's Story from his soul.
Blest with the memory of the Persian king,
He every body knows, and every thing;
Who's dead, who's married, what poor Girl beguil'd
Hath lost a paramour and found a child;
Which Gardener hath most cabbages and peas,
And which Old Woman hath most hives of bees;
Which Farmer boasts the most prolific sows,
Cocks, hens, geese, turkeys, goats, sheep, bulls, and cows;
Which Barber best the Ladies' locks can curl;
Which house in Windsor sells the finest Purl;
Which Chimney-sweep best beats, in gold array,
His brush and shovel, on the first of May;
Whose Dancing-dogs in rigadoons excel;
And whose the Puppet-show that bears the bell;
Which clever smith the prettiest Man-trap makes,
To save from thieves the Royal ducks and drakes,
The Guinea hens and peacocks, with their eggs,
And catch his loving subjects by the legs.
Oh! since the Prince of Gossips reads thy book,
To what high honours may not Bozzy look?
The sunshine of his Smile may soon be thine:
Perchance, in Converse thou mayst hear him shine:
Perchance, to stamp thy merit through the Nation,
He begs of Johnson's Life thy Dedication;
Asks questions of thee, O thou lucky elf,
And kindly answers every one himself.
Blest with the classic learning of a College,
Our King is not a miser in his knowledge:
Nought in the storehouse of his brains turns musty;
No Razor-wit, for want of use, grows rusty:
Whate'er his head suggests, whate'er he knows,
Free as Election Beer from tubs it flows;
Yet, ah! superior far, it boasts the merit
Of never fuddling people with the spirit.

Say, Bozzy, when, to bless our anxious sight,
When shall thy Volume burst the gates of light?
Oh! clothed in calf, ambitious Brat, be born;
Our kitchens, parlours, libraries, adorn.
My Fancy's keen anticipating eye,
A thousand charming Anecdotes can spy: . . .
Of George, whose Brain, if right the mark I hit,
Forms one huge Cyclopedia of wit;
That holds the wisdom of a thousand ages,
And frightens all his Workmen and his Pages.
O Bozzy, still thy tell-tale plan pursue:
The World is wondrous fond of something new;
And let but Scandal's breath embalm the page,
It lives a welcome guest from age to age.
Not only say who breathes an arrant knave,
But who hath sneak'd a rascal to his grave:
Make o'er his turf (in Virtue's cause) a rout,
And, like a damned good Christian, pull him out.
Without a fear, on families harangue;
Say who shall lose their ears, and who shall hang;
Publish the demireps, and punks; nay more,
Declare what virtuous wife shall be a whore.
Thy brilliant brain conjecture can supply,
To charm through every leaf the eager eye.
The Blue Stocking society describe,
And give thy comment on each joke and jibe:
Tell what the Women are, their wit, their quality,
And dip them in thy streams of immortality.

Let Lord Macdonald threat thy breech to kick,
And o'er thy shrinking shoulders shake his stick:
Treat with contempt the menace of this Lord;
'Tis History's province, Bozzy, to record .
Though Wilkes abuse thy Brain, that airy Mill,
And swear poor Johnson murdered by thy quill;
What's that to thee? Why, let the Victim bleed;
Thy end is answered, if the Nation read .
The fiddling Knight, and tuneful Mistress Thrale,
Who frequent hobb'd or nobb'd with Sam in ale,
Snatch up the pen (as thirst of fame inspires),
To write his jokes and stories by their fires;
Then why not thou each joke and tale enrol,
Who, like a watchful Cat before a hole,
Full twenty years (inflamed with letter'd pride)
Didst mousing sit before Sam's mouth so wide,
To catch as many scraps as thou wert able,
A very I azarus at the Rich Man's table?
What though against thee Porters bounce the door,
And bid thee hunt for secrets there no more;
With pen and ink so ready at thy coat,
Exciseman-like, each syllable to note,
That, given to Printer's Devils (a precious load!),
On wings of print comes flying all abroad?
Watch then the venal Valets, smack the Maids,
And try with gold to make them rogues and jades.
Yet should their honesty thy bribes resent;
Fly to thy fertile genius, and invent:
Like old Voltaire, who placed his greatest glory
In cooking up an entertaining story;
Who laughed at Truth, whene'er her simple tongue
Would snatch Amusement from a tale or song.

Oh! while amid the Anecdotic mine
Thou labour'st hard to bid thy Hero shine,
Run to Bolt Court, exert thy Curll-like soul,
And fish for golden leaves from hole to hole:
Find when he ate and drank, and cough'd and sneezed;
Let all his motions in thy Book be squeezed:
On tales, however strange, impose thy claw;
Yes, let thy Amber lick up every Straw:
Sam's nods, and winks, and laughs, will form a treat;
For all that breathes of Johnson must be great .

Blest be thy labours, most adventurous Bozzy,
Bold rival of Sir John and Dame Piozzi;
Heavens, with what Laurels shall thy head be crown'd!
A Grove, a Forest, shall thy ears surround.
Yes: while the Rambler shall a Comet blaze,
And gild a world of darkness with its rays,
Thee too that world with wonderment shall hail,
A lively bouncing Cracker at his tail.